


The Curious Case of the Cat in the Day-Time

by halloa_what_is_this



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A cat makes Sherlock rethink his life choises, Asexual Relationship, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halloa_what_is_this/pseuds/halloa_what_is_this
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John seems to have acquired a cat and Sherlock is not too pleased of the prospects of a feline in the household.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curious Case of the Cat in the Day-Time

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on my [tumblr](http://halloa-what-is-this.tumblr.com/post/47275706122/) as a birthday present. Goes together with a gifset.
> 
> Title is, obviously, a playing on Holmes' remark in 'Silver Blaze'.

“John! There’s a thing in the flat!” came a scream from the sitting room. John ran downstairs from his room, almost breaking his neck on the stairs, prepared to see anything from a rat to a centipede running over his breakfast tray but he was only met by Sherlock staring at Maurice who was sitting on its tail on the hearth rug, purring like an engine, eyes fixed at Sherlock.

“It’s a cat, Sherlock. I’m looking after him for a friend.”

John walked to the mirror and began to adjust his coat.

“I forgot to buy cat biscuits so I’ll just pop in to the market. You try and make friends with him while I’m gone. He’s a really good cat.”

He looked away from the mirror to Sherlock who was glowering at Maurice like it had done something personally offensive. John glanced at his shoes.

“You know, if you two get along, we could think about getting one ourselves,” he said and lifted his eyes back to Sherlock.

Sherlock kept on looking mildly disgustedly at the still purring Maurice and turned around abruptly.

“Maybe the violin will drive him away,” he muttered under his breath, picked up the bow and the instrument and started a melancholy tune that sounded more like a cat in heat than anything that had come out of it before.

Maurice’s eyes began to droop and the purring kept getting louder. John looked at the cat, trying very hard not to laugh and said: “Sorry, it seems like he’s actually enjoying that. I’m going now. No experiments on the cat!”

*

The next morning found John and Sherlock sitting at the table eating their breakfast when Maurice jumped gracefully among the plates and glasses cluttering the table, padded along to the abandoned sausages and fried eggs on Sherlock’s plate and started to sniff the disregarded breakfast.

Sherlock stole his plate away with a swish, eyes shooting arrows at the cat who didn’t look at all surprised that the treats had vanished before its eyes, but turned around and walked to John who immediately offered it the slightest bit of sausage.

“Spoiled brat of a cat,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, walked to the kitchen and dumped the rest of his food in the bin. John leaned his cheek against his hand and let Maurice lick his fingers clean from the grease.

*

In the afternoon, Sherlock was trying to work on the newest case with his laptop open and a heap of crime scene photos and police reports surrounding him on the floor. He was so concentrated on the pictures of a beheaded girl of eighteen that he didn’t hear Maurice jump on the table behind his laptop. When he lifted his eyes to google for the swiftest way to decapitate a person using what must have been bolt cutters, he was startled half to death by two yellow eyes staring at him intently over his laptop screen.

He squinted his eyes at the cat who didn’t seem the least irritated but kept on staring at him in turn. He leaned in closer and Maurice fell down on its back, clearly expecting a tummy rub.

“Ha! You lose, you sod!”

John, who had been sitting in his chair reading the newspaper, looked up at Sherlock and the cat that was frozen in place, white belly up inviting a hand to caress the silky fur. Of course Sherlock had no intention of doing anything of the sort. He kept bellowing: “Come on! Up! Again. I bet I can beat you any time.”

John decided this was the time to get up and go to the kitchen to put the dinner on, perhaps cry a few tears of laughter while peeling the onions.

 

 

Dinner in the oven, John went back to the sitting room, only to find Sherlock still staring straight into Maurice’s eyes. The cat had given up on getting any love from the man and had sat down on its tail, eyes drooping again and a loud purring coming from its throat.

”See, John, it lost again!”

John didn’t have the heart to tell him that the cat basking lazily in the afternoon sun, looking at Sherlock through half closed lids like he was the biggest moron in the room, reminded him of the detective himself when he was rolling his eyes at someone who was doing something absolutely idiotic.

*

Weekend came to its end, the cat was returned to its owner (a colleague of John’s who had gone to Exeter to see his girlfriend, a fact which Sherlock regarded with a snort and a remark on how long distance relationships never lasted), and suddenly the flat felt a lot emptier than it had been. During the following week John often caught Sherlock glancing over his laptop, clearly hoping to see the cat enjoying its afternoon nap next to the warm machine.

“You know, the same thing happened to me when I was eight and my cat died. I thought I saw him everywhere for months after.”

“You were a grieving child, John. I do not miss the bloody cat.”

Another week went by with a moody Sherlock getting moodier, stalking around the flat and tormenting his violin. Finally John couldn’t take it anymore and left a website of the local animal shelter open on his laptop before leaving to go to work. When he came home, the front page had changed to an advertisement of a four-month-old Norwegian Forest Cat kitten that looked at John pleadingly with its golden eyes. The description proclaimed the furball to be the last of five that had been dumped on the shelter’s doorsteps when the kittens were only a week old.

John glanced at Sherlock who was fiddling with his bow as if it had an invisible toy attached to the other end and he was bouncing it up and down for an invisible kitten.

“I should have guessed you’d pick the only purebred show cat that will grow up to be just like you. You do know Norwegians are probably the proudest of all cats?”

Sherlock stopped bouncing his bow and looked at him with round eyes.

“What are you talking about? If anything, the cat looks like you in the morning with its fur sticking everywhere.”

Then he seemed to remember himself and went back to sulking.

“And I do not want a cat. I just browsed a few pictures since you happened to leave the page open. It seems it’s _you_ who wants a feline in this house.”

John turned to look at the cat. It was true that it had the same golden colour in its fur as his hair did, but if his grandmother’s two Norwegians were anything to go by, they were going to be pompous and proud as hell and never let you near if it didn’t serve some kind of purpose for them. He looked at Sherlock again. The man might look more like a Siamese, but he had the same grace as a Norwegian did, as well as the arrogance and the fear of intimacy.

John fished his phone out of his pocket and dialled the number on the website.

“I’ll ask if we can see the cat tomorrow. It’s too late to do anything today.”

A short _harrumph_  came from Sherlock's direction, and he began to fiddle with his bow again.


End file.
